Between The Notes
by BabalooBlue
Summary: Post-finale one-shot. Part of the 'Take II' 'verse. (Please see my profile for full list of stories.) - "He who does not understand your silence will probably not understand your words." (Elbert Hubbard)


**Between The Notes**

_Many thanks, as always, to maineac._

* * *

It had been one of those days. That's what people usually say, isn't it? But what exactly did that mean? Wilson knew what it meant in his case.

In his case it meant that he had dealt with six patients who claimed they had the flu but in fact only had a regular cold. It meant that he had to persuade another young mother to have her baby vaccinated. It meant that he had to arrange for fresh coffee for the office because someone had forgotten to do it the previous week. This in turn meant that he only had half the time he usually allocated for charting. _One of those days_ meant that he had to listen to his colleague whine about her teenage son's shenanigans during his lunch break.

All this made it look like he wasn't happy. But he was. He had been cancer-free for a year now. He was back at work – even if being one of five doctors in a general practice in a Seattle suburb wasn't what he would have called 'work' only two years ago. It was all a bit mundane. But mundane was fine. He had to pace himself, had started off working only three days a week. This was his first regular five day week after two years. It was last week that he had brought it up at breakfast, casually.

"I've been thinking about going back full-time. I might mention it to Simmons today if I get a chance."

House had only shrugged. "Sure, it's your life."

Carefully hidden underneath that flippant remark had been a more somber '_if you're absolutely sure that you're ready'_. Maybe even a '_do you really think that's a good idea'_. It was hard to tell with House; even after all these years he wouldn't let it show that he cared. Even though he did. In House's world what he didn't say could be more important than what he did say. Wilson had known this for years. If there was one thing he had learned in the last two years, it was that House cared more about him than anyone else ever had; not his parents, not his brothers and definitely none of his wives. Who else would have given up everything - _everything_ \- to indulge a stupid romantic, misguided notion of his? Certainly nobody else he knew, family or not.

As every evening, he chose the stairs over the elevator and took the steps two at a time. It always left him winded but now decidedly less so than a few weeks ago when he had started doing this. Maybe it was time he took up running again. Slowly of course. The problem was, he wasn't sure how to bring it up with House.

They were both getting older and while he had options to stay fit and healthy, House's choices were a lot more limited. He didn't exactly want to rub House's nose in it.

Halfway up the stairs he heard what he had been hoping to hear, what he had heard every evening for the last two weeks. He heard what he secretly had been looking forward to since at least lunchtime.

They'd had House's organ – the one Wilson had bought for him - shipped over from Princeton, along with some other things they valued. Admittedly, it was a lot less than Wilson had expected. Before they had left on their road trip he had moved most of his belongings into storage, plus what he had taken from House's apartment before it all went to Blythe – he had claimed sentimental reasons for wanting the piano, guitars and a few other things he thought shouldn't go to strangers. Once settled, they had gone through the inventory list, and he had decided to keep some of his books and a few mementos, that was all. He had lived without most of his things for a long time at that point and found that he didn't need nor want most of it. For House, the decision had been between the organ and his piano – they didn't have enough space for both in the new apartment. He chose the organ. Wilson was secretly pleased with that, especially since it had taken House all of two minutes to decide. He did however insist on bringing all his guitars across the country. They now adorned the wall next to the organ.

He had initially been worried about the neighbors, but House had so far resisted the temptation to play at night, and nobody had complained yet. He sincerely hoped that wouldn't change.

Wilson reached the top of the stairs and stopped at their apartment door to catch his breath, keys already in hand. But as every evening, he didn't open the door. Not just yet. For a while he just stood there, his head against the door, eyes closed, and listened to the music coming out of the apartment. There were days when he thought he could stand like this for hours and just listen. He knew, the moment he opened the door, the music would stop and neither he nor House would mention it.

The music changed every day. Sometimes he recognized the tune and sometimes he didn't. Somehow House managed to give that organ a different voice, depending on his mood that day, Wilson assumed.

The first time he had heard it, he had happily opened the door and then been surprised that the music abruptly stopped. The second night, he waited outside for a while and listened. Again, the music stopped as soon as he entered.

House knew what time he would usually be home. That was one of the advantages of working in a small practice – no emergencies and usually no overtime, at least so far. So after a few days of this, Wilson was sure that House timed his playing on purpose.

The music was for him.

But apparently he didn't want Wilson knowing it. Or rather, he didn't want Wilson commenting on it. As long as he stopped playing when Wilson came home, there was no music, nothing to talk about.

It wasn't as if he had never heard House play before. The music had started when Wilson came home after the surgery and his last courses of chemo and radiation. House had only had his acoustic guitar then, the one Wilson had given him for Christmas last year. It had been the end of Wilson's treatment; at least that's what they had hoped. It had taken everything out of him, every last ounce of energy. For weeks he had spent his time between the couch and his bed.

Exhaustion had turned into depression. A battle had been won, a life restored. But for what? What was next? After he had spent all this time fighting for his life it had been handed back to him – and now he didn't know what to do with it.

That was the time House had started playing for him. One evening, when Wilson had just gone to bed, House began to play very softly. This repeated itself the following night. And the one after that. Usually it was just one song, some days two. It wasn't long and Wilson started to look forward to bedtime. Whereas before he would have spent that time ruminating on what to do with his life, what purpose he still had, he now lay there in the darkness and let his friend play him to sleep. A personalized House treatment for insomnia and depression, to be taken nightly by ear. It worked.

Sometimes Wilson wondered if he was the sole recipient of this treatment or if House himself didn't benefit from it just as much. In those months, House had been just as much adrift as he himself. More probably, considering he still needed to sort his life out.

It was obvious that House needed to get back to work. Wilson knew his friend had done some unofficial consulting while he had undergone treatment. House had been there when he needed him. But he also knew that House had to keep busy or he would spontaneously combust from boredom. The consulting must have been unofficial because dead men don't show up on budget sheets, not even genius diagnosticians. Wilson had been ill, not stupid. Or at least no more stupid than usual, as House would put it.

But whatever House's plans were, it had to wait until his affairs were back in order. He was in limbo. And that kind of uncertainty did not agree with House.

House was due to fly out to the East Coast next week. There had been several lengthy phone calls over the last few months, both with Stacy and a lawyer she had arranged for House. Apparently Stacy was optimistic that House could claim his life back and get away with no jail time. House was going to travel alone; Wilson had not been involved in the discussions. House had been very tight-lipped about it all. But he was clearly nervous.

And so was he. Not just for House's sake.

He hadn't been alone in something like two years. First, he had been on the road with House. Then there was a lot of time spent between the clinic in Seattle and the small apartment they had rented hastily. And then they had moved in here. All in all, close to two years. During all that time, House had barely left his side.

Thinking about being on his own for at least a week – and possibly longer if things didn't turn out the way Stacy predicted – gave Wilson an odd feeling in his chest, a little constriction. He couldn't remember ever feeling this way before. Of course he had lived on his own in the past. But thinking it over, it suddenly dawned on him that he had never been long between relationships. Half the time, when his marriages crumbled, he had moved in with House. For every crisis, there had always been House to fall back on if he so chose.

It was nice not coming home to an empty apartment, sharing it with someone you knew so well that you didn't have to worry about them seeing your morning face. Someone who didn't mind you walking around in your pajamas all day on a Sunday. It was comfortable, that's what it was.

Oh God. He was starting to think like some boring old fart.

Wilson turned his back against the door frame and slowly slid down to the ground. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Tonight's music was a little melancholy, interrupted by passages that seemed almost upbeat. It was wavering, couldn't settle on one mood. Had House chosen it to represent his apprehension about what was waiting for him next week? Wilson couldn't recall ever hearing this piece before, not played by House or anybody else. For all he knew, House had been sitting at that organ all day, composing. But it wasn't like he could ask him. If House wanted to talk about it, he wouldn't stop playing the moment Wilson opened the door.

It was a puzzle for Wilson.

House was playing _his_ organ, the one he gave him. He played the moment a usually tired Wilson came home from work. He stopped the moment Wilson opened the door. This was not a coincidence. Was there more to it than being embarrassed about playing something he had probably composed himself? When was House ever embarrassed? Never. He didn't open up enough to let himself be embarrassed. House shut down the moment things even got close to emotional. House also shunned touch, at times seemed even afraid of it. And yet, as a musician, he was all about touch. His hands flew over the keys with a precision and gentleness Wilson had often admired. So what was House trying to tell him?

Think, Wilson. Look at this one step at a time.

One - he was not just accidentally overhearing something, this had a purpose.

Two - House was playing Wilson's organ, not a guitar.

Three - stopping when Wilson opened the door indicated this was something House normally didn't like talking about.

How hard could it be?

Wilson sat there for a long time and listened to House playing variations of the same tune over and over again.

When it finally dawned on Wilson he couldn't believe it had been that easy. House would have a good laugh if he ever knew how long it had taken him to work this out. But he wouldn't ever know, that was the point - House didn't want to talk about this.

He still didn't recognize the music. But it didn't actually matter what the particular tune was. Playing it was the one way House could thank him for giving him the organ. But it wasn't just that; there was more. Now that he had figured out that the music was about saying thank you, it was obvious really.

Wilson remembered how hard House had taken his initial decision to forgo all treatment and just let the cancer take its course. He thought back to that foolish notion of his, that idea of a road trip, of riding off into the sunset with House. That childish idea of an escape, and House had gotten behind it. Heck, he had done a lot more than that. He had made it possible. He had thrown his life away for it. For Wilson. And yet, when after several months on the road, Wilson had decided to not just give up, House had just shrugged and gone along with his plans once more. At the time, all his thoughts had been on the treatment options and what lay ahead of him. But now it dawned on Wilson how incredibly relieved House must have been. And yet, he had never said a word about it.

This, this nightly music, this was House saying thank you. Thank you for going into treatment and therefore for still being alive. Thanks to Wilson's decision to fight for his life, House now had a chance to get his own life back. If it hadn't been the case before, from the moment in that diner on, when Wilson changed his mind, their lives were linked together forever. Because without House and his unwavering support - both in stupidity and sanity - Wilson wouldn't be here right now either. The cancer would have killed him a long time ago.

That's what House had been trying to tell him.

Suddenly, the lonely week ahead, the outcome of the proceedings on the East Coast, weren't all that important anymore. House would work things out, and he would come back.

Something House had said to him once came back to him then. _You have everything you need right here. We both do._ It was still true.

House might not want to talk about this, but after he had figured this out now, Wilson felt the need to mention it. Just once. Tonight. And not in so many words, because however he put it, it would be a klutzy response to House's subtle and artful declaration.

Wilson smiled. He knew just what to say. He got up and turned the key in the lock.

"House, I'm home!"


End file.
